by Fifi Flowers
Just
A
Number
by
FIFI FLOWERS
Champagne Girl Studio
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
Copyright © 2016 Fifi Flowers
Kindle Edition
Cover Design by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design
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Formatting by BB ebooks
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Edited by Jacquelyn Ayres
Published by Champagne Girl Studios
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
www.FifiFlowers.com
WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit material and is intended for adult readers only.
Other Books by Fifi Flowers
– All Standalone Books –
A Window to Love, (Book 1, Windows Series)
Reclining Nude in Chicago, (Book 1, Encounters Series)
Awakening to You Trilogy: Complete Book
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Playlist
Other Books by Fifi Flowers
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Fifi Flowers Book News
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the loving memory of Simon le Bleu, my inspiration for Mr. Simon… Though you left this world too soon… you will live on in my heart forever. ♥
Chapter One
Willow
“Not looking for love… shopping for labels…” meant it was six o’clock in the morning, time to decide whether to listen to one round of the song or option two: tap to snooze. In favor of the upbeat song, it played on until the last note. With a smile on my face, I then swiped my finger across my cellphone screen to catch up with the latest on all of my favorite social media outlets.
Hearing another set of lyrics chime in with “and I’m all dressed up…” let me know it was truly time to get up. These were my usual morning rituals, but Thursdays were always a little better as I looked forward to what was waiting for me just outside the sliding screen doors of my loft bedroom.
Out of bed, I padded into the bathroom to complete the rest of my regimen. Shower complete. My just-below-the-shoulder length, dark hair was blown out straight. Make-up in place; subtle for the office (except for my signature red lipstick, which I added for a bit of spunk to offset my standard business attire). Chantilly-white lace panty and bra set. Crisp ivory blouse, houndstooth, knee-length pencil skirt with matching tailored jacket. Four-inch black Mary Jane stilettos. Standing before my oversized, full-length mirror, taking in the total look, I slipped on my graduation gifts: a designer watch and simple, diamond-stud earrings. Satisfied with my appearance, I exited my bedroom.
Stopping in front of my home office alcove, I grabbed my vintage Beekman briefcase, raised the shoulder strap up to secure it in place, and proceed across the open space to the kitchen area.
“Good morning, Hazel.” I reached for my on-the-go coffee cup she had ready and waiting for me, as usual, every Thursday morning. Taking my first perfectly brewed sip, I wished that I could have my housekeeper every single day of the week, but for the time being, I was happy with her weekly cooking and cleaning. She was amazing; she cleaned, did laundry, shopped for me, and cooked all of my meals, which she packaged and froze for the week.
Like the 1960s situation-comedy about a live-in housekeeper’s interactions with the Baxter family, her name is Hazel. I was not born at that time, but my parents were and my father sarcastically called my mother “Mrs. B” whenever he found himself roped into a manly household chore. It was a standing joke between them, that when I was old enough to wonder why my mother, in return, would call my dad “Hazel,” I was shown reruns of the old sitcom. I giggled to myself when reminded of that happy memory every Thursday as I greeted my Hazel.
So, unlike the character on television, my adorable, yet sexy, platinum-blonde, British domestic engineer spoke and looked more like I should work for her. She’s about five foot two—if that—perfectly groomed in a sleek lounging suit, and accompanied by a longhaired, whitish-orange cat attached to a turquoise leash. Did I mention the cat? Mr. Simon was also present on Thursdays, obediently curled up in his portable zebra-striped bed. You would swear he thought he was a dog with the way he loved to go out on walks. If you were to ever find yourself in downtown LA on the weekends, you might see Hazel and Mr. Simon strolling along the quiet city streets. Believe it or not, the downtown area became quite tranquil on Friday nights when everyone abandoned the city after work, unless there was a major event scheduled over the weekend.
I met both of them in my building lobby two years ago on a Saturday afternoon as I was rushing to the elevator, my arms filled with grocery bags and dry cleaning. Right when I was about to hit the button, I lost my balance along with all my items. Hazel and Mr. Simon, holding one of my tiny Mexican limes in his mouth, came to my rescue, helping me gather my scattered items and delivering them to my apartment.
Over a couple margaritas, hence the limes, I learned that she had lived in my building for ten years. She was newly retired from the corporate playground and already bored. By the end of our visit, she had offered her assistance. We had set a day, had agreed upon a rate, and on the following Thursday, she and Mr. Simon showed up ready for work.
“What’s on your schedule today, love?” Hazel loved for me to tell her the latest scuttlebutt. She said it made her feel connected to the business world she had left behind. She was happy to walk away from the demand and aggravation, but she missed the thrill of tasks and accomplishment. I knew that feeling. That exhilaration. It was the driving force that lead me, successfully, up the corporate ladder.
After filling her in on the buzz around the office and gifting her with a bit of gossip—swear she was mentally taking dictation—I tossed Mr. Simon a cat treat, which he caught, and made my way out the door.
Leaving my 1925 art-deco apartment building, I walked a few city blocks to my office located in a skyscraper sitting on top of Bunker Hill. No need for a treadmill or Stairmaster machine, climbing up that slope five days a week. I literally thought I would die the first few months, scaling the incline, but once the gams were accustomed and the burn subsided, I was an expert city-hill-climber, even in high-heels.
Arriving at my building, your bas
ic glass and steel structure, I crossed the stark lobby, furnished with only a security guard desk to obscure visitors from a straight shot to the upper floors. After flashing my badge attached to my handbag strap and saying hello, I made a beeline to a crowded elevator. Shooting up to the fifteenth floor, we made a few stops along the way for fellow passengers.
Stepping into the reception area, I waved to the chair-filler of the month. They never stayed long, though this one was going on sixth months. Perhaps she was a relative in need of a job. Passing a maze of cubicles similar to the one I once parked myself inside of daily, I advanced to my private office. Seven long years of proving my worth and value to the company to have my name proudly etched on a plaque on the door.
When I started working in the public relations field, I envisioned working in fashion. I had a true fashion magazine fascination, but absolutely no desire to leave sunny Southern California for New York City, like my friend Lark. I just knew I’d be like her, loving the glamorous city, but missing the warmth of LA. Lucky for her, she established her name as a designer representative in Manhattan and recently was able to relocate back to the sunshine.
Magazines didn’t work the same for me, so in search of fashion in my home town, I found a position with my current company. First, I worked on a variety of campaigns and launches until I was able to bring in some business with the help of friends in the fashion industry. Working with the clients I enlisted, I rarely worked outside of fashion. However, there were various products we often combined with the fashion world.
Stepping inside my office, I set my briefcase on my glass top desk situated in front of a large pane of glass, removed my jacket, and hung it on a chrome stand in the corner, to the right. Smoothing my skirt, I rolled out my white-ribbed, high-back, leather, executive chair and sat down. Ready to see what the day would entail, I removed my laptop from my briefcase and started it up.
Waiting for everything to load, I sipped at my coffee and took in my office view. I loved it. It was light and airy, decorated fashionably, just as I envisioned: pale grey walls complimented the dark grey industrial carpet that ran throughout the whole company office. Several framed black and white fashion photographs by Paolo Marinelli hung above a white leather, square-tufted Harper sofa. Next to it, a tripod floor lamp with a black lampshade stood. Opposite the seating area was a wall of white laminated bookcases with large storage drawers below. Perfect!
Looking back to my screen I saw a multitude of emails awaiting my attention. Starting with the easiest—or, so I thought—until I read it through. The first request wasn’t a difficult one normally, but the company was located in France, and I was not fluent in French.
From: Ida Dupree
To: Willow Dane
Need A Wine Sponsor – Fashion Show
Today at 6:00 AM
Hello Willow,
As you know, Market Week is drawing near. We would like to team with a few non-fashion brands for sponsorship. We are working on a few. Will give you the details of our needs soon. In the meantime, if you could find a vineyard willing to be a sponsor at our event (preferably, Pinard Vineyard), that would be fabulous. Of course, you would include them in all of our PR promotions. Looking forward to hearing from you.
À bientôt,
Ida
Director, Dupree-Lovingier Showroom
cc: Skylar Lovingier
I promptly replied that I would get busy right away. Then, I brought out my tablet to begin tapping out notes. Things to follow up:
Wine.
Pinard Vineyard.
Who reps???
As I was finishing up my list, another email popped up in my inbox. The subject alert didn’t concern me to begin with, since my boss was often dramatic when need not be.
From: Suze Woodland
To: Willow Dane
ALERT – Things are Going Down
Today at 7:00 AM
Keep this under wraps, but it appears the merger is eminent. We will talk tomorrow as I am going to be in meetings all day. We will get through this, I assure you. Not to worry.
Suze
CEO, Woodland & Associates
The rest of my emails paled in comparison. Upcoming eminent merger. The email sounded casual, but the word merger threw me for a loop. I couldn’t shake it from my thoughts as I proceeded to manage my clients’ accounts and requests throughout the day.
Late afternoon my intercom startled me with a buzz. “Ms. Dane. Line three. Thumbelina.”
I swear to God, our human resource manager hired the dumbest receptionists ever. This one took the cake, she never got names correct. “Tomasina, I think you mean.”
“Uh… that’s what I said,” she replied then clicked off abruptly.
Shaking my head, I lifted the receiver. “Hey, Thumbelina.”
“What the hell… Is that what that dipshit heard this time?” Laughing, she continued, “Let’s go grab a drink. My tomkat is in need of a good stiff one.” Not sure if she meant a cock or a cocktail.
Tomasina and I had been friends since we were ten years old. Though we both went off to college, we remained friends and saw each other often. She lived in a historical apartment off Hollywood Boulevard and took the train in a couple times a week. She worked in her family’s jewelry booth over on Hill Street when she wasn’t in their upper floor studio, creating her own line of jewelry. For a couple of years, she apprenticed under some hotshot designer until she decided to go out on her own with the blessing of her former mentor.
I hadn’t seen her in a few weeks, since she had been traveling with her brother in search of gems for her latest collection. I needed a Tomasina-fix. “I’m definitely in. Where shall I meet you? What will you be wearing, so I can recognize you?” I laughed.
“You’re an ass,” she remarked. I really wasn’t joking; that girl changed her look so often. There had been many times I had walked right past her on the street.
Once a month, we hit the garment district to add to our wardrobes. She had made few connections with various showrooms where she showed her creations. During market weeks—four times a year, when buyers came to see the latest season’s fashions—she graced them with her jewels and charm. Loving her immediately, they invited her to browse their backroom racks the day before sample sales. Being the best friend ever, she invited me and we religiously popped in to stake our claims.
The last time we went, I was running late and told her I would meet her at one of our favorite little bistros. As I sat at one table, she sat at another for almost twenty minutes until I went to inquire about her arrival with the hostess, and noticed her sitting across the room with a turquoise bob-hairstyle. Just the week before, waist-length lavender hair sat atop of her head. “So… long? Short? Color?”
“If you must know, it is still shoulder length, but messy and jet black. I’ll carry a red rose so you can spot me right away.” We both giggled wildly like a couple of high school girls instead of the thirty-something years young women we were. “Actually, I’ll just come by your office. Be there at four.”
“I’m off at five.” Not that I was focused.
“Happy hour. We need to take full advantage.” She was right. I could use some libations—lots of them.
“Okay.”
“Okay? That was too easy…” She was right, it was a bit unlike me.
“Don’t ask. Be here on time. I’ll be ready.”
Breezing through my door, like a whirlwind, a few minutes before four, Tomasina, in a fitted, red rose dress, began assessing me. “No. No. No… No.” She unbuttoned my blouse until a hint of my lace bra showed. Whipped out a chunky chain necklace from her oversized purse and held it out to me. Grasping it, without a fight, I clasped it around the back of my neck. “Much better. Now forget the jacket and let’s go.” I took the jacket, but only draped it over my arm. I was sure to need it later.
Making our way to a nearby lounge, we bellied up to the bar to order our, first of many, martinis. Grabbing our glasses, we found a table
in a prime location. Meaning, we were surrounded by business men fresh off the job. Of course she got her flirt on, which got us complimentary beverages and appetizers the rest of the night. Men flocked to my gorgeous friend. She loved the attention; was always looking for romance. For the one.
Tomasina was a hopeful romantic thanks to her passion for romance novels. As soon as she could read, she had her nose stuck in a book. The racier novels came when she hit puberty. She started out, like most of us, with Judy Blume’s Forever. Spending time with her grandmother, she stumbled on to her collection of Woodiwiss novels. Caught by an older cousin, she feared a reprimand. Instead, she snuck her more adult romance; she was hooked. She was my link to naughty reads.
Although, I was more of a late bloomer. I never started reading them until my freshman year in high school. I remember other girls in my class passing around books with earmarked pages and giggling. My friend took her reading a bit more serious. Wanting to experience the so-called lovemaking, Tomasina attached herself to an upper classman, gave away her virginity, and figured out that romance books were fictional for sure. I followed her a couple years later, but at least she had given me a few pointers, and it wasn’t so bad, but definitely not earth-shattering. Of course, that never stopped us. We were boy crazy, always searching for love.
I stopped my search in my third year in college, but that’s a story for another time. Let me just say, it was a full year after graduation before I decided I was ready to jump back in the sack. Equipped with a set of rules, number one being there would be no love involved for me. I didn’t need one man to make my life complete. How boring, right?!
Thanks to life lessons and Tomasina, I had unrealistic ideals about love. And I didn’t need a man leading me to a possible heartbreak. Thankfully, I also had realistic views that dictated how I approached my casual unions with men:
Only fun.
No feelings.
Forever—not an option
Simple Flings.
There were a few essentials I needed to escape my everyday bustling lifestyle: Yoga, reading, and sex. Though, not always in that order. I was focused and structured in the corporate world; loose and carefree in my personal life. Although, that might not be totally true. I also had rules, restrictions, and limitations self-imposed on my social life.